


Thus with a Kiss I Die.

by akaatsuki



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Aged up but not for nsfw purposes, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rated M for a Mountain of Shakespeare References, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-04-18 20:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14220723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaatsuki/pseuds/akaatsuki
Summary: He can still feel the warmth of Chiaki’s hand holding on tightly to his own, as if he were to lose him at any moment. Kaoru’s sweet voice echoes in the chaos of his mind.“Yes,” Izumi responds breathlessly, for his chest felt now impossibly tight around his heart, “I’m fine.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is going to have a LOT of violence, death, and other topics as such. please proceed at your own risk!
> 
> characters have been aged-up NOT for NSFW purposes, but for the violent situation of the story. 
> 
> 3A-trio centric. 
> 
> this story was MASSIVELY inspired from baz luhrmann's modern adaptation of william shakespeare's romeo and juliet. if you haven't seen it, you totally should! i'm probably just a huge shakespeare nerd, but i LOVED his adaptation so so much!! you'll see a lot of similarities in this fic, so if you have seen the movie, have fun with that! other than that, yeah, there'll be a LOT of shakespearean elements in this fic.
> 
> in addition, i do not have a beta reader, so possible errors/inconsistencies may be evident. please don't be afraid to point them out in the comments! 
> 
> please enjoy! kudos/comments are extremely appreciated! ♥

A burst of cool, midsummer night air rushes through the open doors as the hundredth flurry of attendees bustle inside, shirts pressed and the hems of dresses fluttering around slim ankles. The courtyard is still brimming with people eager to get inside, conversing amongst each other as they wait in the shape of something that vaguely resembles an admission line. The staff who had previously been holding the doors open seem to have long since given up on trying to close them, and so they simply leave them in place, allowing the crowd to trickle in through the doorway like water rushing through a crack in a dam. Generally, staff are positioned at the doors in order to keep out unwanted guests, but for a party such as the one held tonight, the doormen have specific instructions to allow any and everyone inside on the basis of an open invitation. And, for this reason, an innumerable amount of people have made their way here, all restless to call themselves guests of Basilisk Manor.

When one walks through those double doors, their excitable eyes are greeted with a most grand sight: long tables dressed in regal cloth and filled to their edges with carefully-prepared meals, curtains that extended to the tops of the impossibly high windows, and sculpted pillars lining a grandiose staircase wide enough to fit at least ten people shoulder-to-shoulder. The stairs lead up to a middle ground and then split into two sections, each leading to a different portion of the upper floor. The ceilings, high as they are, make the crowds of people seem small when one looks at them together. Even more, what people saw when entering seemed to be hardly a _piece_ of the entire mansion--for who knows what could lie in the floors above where guests could not traverse? It was a house of dreams, one might say--a fantasy castle in which only those blessed with the riches of a lifetime might have the pleasure of occupying.

Sena Izumi watches the guests continuing to flood through the open doors as he descends the grand staircase, allowing him a sort of bird’s eye view of the first floor, and all that it had to offer. The mistress of the house, whom he is the dedicated escort to, glides down the steps after him, the elongated ends of his dark gown dragging along the soft fabric of the carpet beneath their heels. He is fitted entirely in the color of the sky at midnight: an intricate dress, long, black gloves that allowed only the pale skin of his shoulders to peer out, heels with a height of which common people would not dare to imagine, and a veiled hat that carpets the length of his hair. Izumi’s icy gaze follows a pair of lovers shuffle through a particularly dense crowd of people near the entrance in order to get to another room, and then, he finds his attention drawn away by the presence of several people descending the opposite side of the staircase.

Two escorts stand at the sides of the man of the house, whose presence seems to emanate raw authority and demands respect from all who lay eyes upon him. His broad chest and shoulders make him seem like a giant in comparison to the more thin figures of the two beside him, and his steps are long and confident, like those of an emperor walking through the streets of his kingdom. His suit is a sheer white color from head to toe, and so he practically glows in the light of the room, looking over his guests with a bright, hospitable smile that could capture the heart of any who looked upon it. His emerald eyes glimmer and implore whomever meets his gaze to trust in him, and to place their faith in his words and actions; he is simply one of those friendly, upbeat people that one meets every so often, and who livens up any room when he walks into it, regardless of how dark and dreary it may have once been. He steps onto the center platform of the staircase, he and his two escorts meeting Izumi and the mistress in the middle, and then, the three escorts take a step away from their superiors as the man takes the hand of his mistress.

Izumi catches the gaze of the head of the house’s two companions: Tsukinaga Leo, dressed in a pressed black suit, and Sakuma Ritsu, who he knows loathes to wear the color white, but must do so anyway if he wishes to keep up appearances. The three of them, often called “the Knights” of the two most important people of the house, are used to escorting the man and his mistress; it is not simply for their own protection, but also because of how improper it would be, appearance-wise, for them to be seen without their own personal escorts. Though Ritsu and Leo would normally be smiling and chuckling about some stupid joke to each other, the escorting process requires that they keep a neutral expression and utter silence unless addressed by the ones they were walking beside. Izumi shares a close relationship with the two of them, and when the three are dismissed, he has no doubt that Leo will drag them off to some populated area of the party to join in on the festivities.

That time seems to be growing ever closer, as the man and the mistress turn to walk towards the edge of the platform, looking out over the people gathered below them, all beginning to hush each other and turn to look towards the two figures. The mistress, contented with this sight, steps closer to his husband, his shapely shoulders especially complemented by the way that he rests his head softly upon the other.

His name is Sakuma Rei, tall, unspeakably beautiful, and the beloved mistress of Mikejima Madara, the head of the house. His arm is hooked rather possessively around Rei’s waist as he waves with great satisfaction to his audience of guests, who all clap their hands together ecstatically at the presence of the pair. Rei, who holds out a glass of deep red wine in one hand, wraps his arm around one of Madara’s and smiles enchantingly at the crowd with his blood-red lips. Every piece of him had been fine-tuned to perfection, whether it be the lovely shape of his body, the delicate waves of his hair, or, especially, the sharp features of his face. Long lashes curtain the scarlet color of his irises, and his skin, flawless and smooth, seems almost a sheer white when compared to the dark fabric of his clothing.

While every other mistress in the mansion is dressed in white, and every other man dressed in black, these two are reversed, as if to emphasize their isolated position from the rest of the world around them. They complement each other in every way: Madara’s sturdy, built frame in comparison to Rei’s slender figure, and Madara’s fierce boisterity in contrast to Rei’s sweet, honeyed voice--every aspect of the pair seemed to be coordinated, as though they were designed as perfect foils to each other.

Of course, the two _do_ have a particular quality in common: both have mastered the art of putting on a facade to hide the true nature behind their enticing smiles.

Sakuma Rei, charming and alluring as he is, is filled to the brim with the most potent poison. He is, arguably, the most dangerous person that Izumi has ever crossed paths with. Even more-so than his husband, Rei is a master at pulling and cutting the strings at his own pleasure, using every blessing he has to his own advantage. His silky voice and seductive gaze lures in his prey, and by the time the sun falls beneath the horizon, he has already devoured the poor souls. He beguiles men with even the strongest of hearts, getting them drunk off a single touch of his venomous fingertips, and then closing in for the final kill, parched tongue craving the metallic tang of enemy blood. If he so desired something from anyone, his wish would be granted, whether it be by his own hand, or by the hand of those so eager to serve him at every turn. Truly and wholly, he was the incarnate of some ancient demon whom had awakened to wreak havoc upon mortal men.

Members of the enemy house call him a whore. The members of _their_ house, being far more wise, call him their queen.

Mikejima Madara, the king, is also in no way harmless. He wears a welcoming smile, laughs happily and invites all into his home, and overall seems to be a kind, warm individual. However, just as his mistress, he wears a carefully crafted facade in order to hide the malignity that lies beneath his fake grins. Despite his outward appearance, members of both houses know that, if provoked to do so, he would have no issue with killing somebody by his own hand. It isn’t much of a surprise, of course, given the fact that he is the head of one of the two strongest organizations in the city, but it certainly proves how misleading his first impression can be. While his mistress is more prone to toying with his prey before he devours it, Madara tends to end things quickly and painfully, hardly ever hesitating when it comes to delivering the finishing blow to a wounded foe. When this is combined with the fact that he would willingly go to any lengths that his beloved Rei requests of him, he is truly a formidable enemy that the other house knows well to look out for.

The two of them together run House Basilisk, a criminal organization masked as a wealthy business. When both are put together for one common goal, they become an unstoppable force that mows down all who stand in their way. Anybody with half a mind knows not to object to or disregard any order delivered from them, as their lives could be flickered out in any given moment like the fragile flame of a burning candle.

Or, at least, anybody who isn’t allied with House Phoenix, the opposing house of the city and their sworn enemy.

“Are you all enjoying yourselves tonight?” Rei, voice saturated in honey, asks the quieted sea of guests. They respond with an overwhelming volume of applause, expressing their gratitude to the queen.

“How wonderful,” he hums in delight, looking towards his husband with a sultry gaze, “isn’t that wonderful, darling?”

Madara laughs heartily, smile wide as he declares, “it’s a real festival! Make sure that you all dance until your legs give out! Stay and dance until the sun rises in the sky!”

At this, the audience erupts into an orchestra of applause once more, their hushed silence shattered as they return to conversing, dancing, singing, and drinking. Rei and Madara, pleased by the reaction and eager to join in themselves, begin to descend the rest of the staircase so that they might join their guests. Rei, stopping momentarily turning around so that he can look back upon their escorts, offers them an inviting smile.

“The three of you are dismissed,” he says, and Madara, a grin lighting his expression, adds, “make sure to enjoy yourselves tonight!”

And, with that, the two reach the bottom floor, Rei never once parting from where he held to Madara’s arm. Izumi watches them eventually blend into the crowd, as though they, too, were simple people with no inkling of responsibility nor authority. He finds it rather fascinating how they can so easily relax and forget about their hostility, but he supposes that even when the two look as carefree as can be, they are always on-guard in some manner. Leo, who had been keeping his solemn expression up until the very moment he was dismissed, breaks into a loud laugh, throwing his arm around Ritsu’s waist and pulling him close.

“Sena, let’s go!” he presses with excitement glowing in his bright eyes, “His Majesty always makes the best festivals! Haven’t you seen how many people are here!?”

“I’d rather they all leave,” Ritsu complains with a bitter tone crossing his arms as he leans against his husband, “I hate crowded parties.”

“I’d figure you’d be used to that kind of thing by now, Kuma-kun,” Izumi retorts, and Leo laughs once more, somehow finding amusement in the dull conversation they were sharing. Ritsu sighs, knowing that he cannot do anything to change the situation, and so he gives in to Leo’s eagerness to join the party by taking his hand in his own. Leo, elated by this response, grabs Izumi’s hand as he squeezes Ritsu’s, and begins to pull them down the staircase with a skip in his step. Of course, Izumi and Ritsu hardly appreciate this notion when they are wearing heels, but once Leo has begun, it is near impossible to stop him--this is something they’ve both learned well by now.

And so, disgruntled and agitated at the way in which Leo tugs his wrist left and right, Izumi is pulled along with the two, forced to shove his way past the tight spaces between guests. It’s uncomfortable, and he can feel the movement of his dress when it’s pushed out of place by bustling people trying to move past him, but with Leo’s grasp so firm upon his wrist now, it isn’t as though he can simply stop himself. _I’m going to hit the damned idiot when he finally slows down,_ is what he thinks bitterly to himself right before some impossibly tall man tries to abruptly move between Izumi and Leo, the momentum behind his stride forcing them to break their link.

Izumi’s hand is suddenly empty now, and though that is exactly what he had wanted a few seconds earlier, he cannot help but wish that Leo’s hand were still in his grasp now. As if his path had been cut off without warning by some unforeseen obstacle, he feels as though he’s been stranded in the vastness of the empty ocean, looking out over a sea of black and white attire that all seem to be melting into each other as the people continue to dance. Hand-in-hand, each person smiling and laughing with their designated partner, Izumi realizes now how out of place his presence is here; but, no matter where he steps, his way is blockaded by a wall of party-goers. They are like the inner workings of an old grandmaster clock, with every gear turning in its place so that the one beside it can move as well, and he is the clog that is jamming the perfection of the process. The second hand slows to a halt, and with a few glances from passer-bys, the outlier in their elegant sequence is beginning to make himself evident. Izumi takes two steps backwards when a particularly lively pair of dancers come far too close for comfort, and then he takes in a sharp, stunned gasp of air when a suited arm hooks around his waist and pulls him back into the crowd like a grain of white sugar being dissolved into water.

He’s twirled around in his place, the hem of his dress following him like a burst of wind, and the second hand begins to tick once more as he finds himself looking into a pair of deep, brown eyes. It all happened in the blink of an eye, really, and so when his feet begin to follow along to the rhythm of the music on pure instinct, he wonders just _how_ his situation had suddenly escalated to this. His right hand clasped in the hand of a stranger and his other upon the flat of his shoulder, his newfound partner holds his arm steady around Izumi’s waist as he guides him through the music. Izumi realizes then that the moment they had begun to dance, it was as though the crowd was as simple to navigate as the staircase he had previously been on; so long as one danced, they could float amongst the sea of guests with all the ease of a boat upon the waves. The clock functions perfectly once more, with each and every gear moving together, creating the rhythm of a ticking hand with their heels.

“Sorry for pulling you so suddenly,” the stranger suddenly speaks, and Izumi’s attention is directed back towards him(though he doesn’t really think he looked _away_ from his gaze as much as he had simply spaced out), “you looked a little lost.”

His voice is smooth and suave, and as they dance hand-in-hand, Izumi takes notice of how he moves as swiftly as a passing breeze through the summer. His hair is an alluring golden color, and it spills around his neck and over his shoulders like the path of a river being split by some protrusion. Something about his presence feels oddly comforting to him, and yet, at the same time, some lingering anticipation of dread sits heavy in his chest. Izumi feels the genuine warmth that the man’s smile provides, and his eyes have a truthful light to them; he is someone who guides his own path, and enjoys each and every curveball thrown at him by life.

That is what Izumi deduces from a few moments of looking upon the stranger.

“Don’t worry about it,” Izumi replies cooly, ignoring how accurate the other’s statement of him having been completely lost really was. “You dance rather well, don’t you?”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” he laughs, and Izumi feels the sudden heat of embarrassment creeping upon his cheeks. “Well, I had a good teacher. You’re pretty lucky that I was the one who pulled you out of there, huh? It must be nice to dance with someone like me.”

“You’re pretty cocky, you know,” Izumi remarks with a dangerous expression, “don’t push your luck.”

But the stranger simply laughs at this as well, finding amusement in Izumi’s short-tempered reactions. On any other occasion, Izumi is certain that he would have simply dug his heel into the bastard’s foot and stormed off on his own, but some indescribable feeling of closeness to the other stops that urge from being carried out.

And so they dance for a few minutes longer, the man’s grasp upon Izumi’s hand gentle as it pulls him along, until they are interrupted by the presence of another gentleman--though, with the way he practically plowed his way through the crowd to reach them like a knife slicing through some flat, pristine surface, could he really be _called_ a gentleman? He’s boisterously calling out to Izumi’s current partner, waving his hand obnoxiously and earning the passing glares of the guests on every side of him. He’s caught the other’s attention, at the least, and he gives Izumi a rather embarrassed smile and a short laugh, preparing to excuse himself, if only to stop everybody around them from casting their judgements upon him. However, before he can even let go of Izumi’s hand, his companion has already reached them, and has effectively destroyed the perfect rhyme and rhythm of the dancefloor.

He appears to be the same height as the one who had been dancing with Izumi, but has a completely different aura about him. Whereas the other was graceful, professional, and courteous, this man seemed nothing short of his polar opposite: loud and graceless. His eyes burned brightly with passion, however, and his smile was undeniably genuine. It was the sort of smile that one might hope to see upon the face of somebody dearest to them, warm and inviting, and quite nearly contagious in its intensity. It invokes in those who see it an incredulously strong urge to place their full trust into his hands.

“Hakaze! You…” he begins, and then catches sight of Izumi, and his expression contorts into a look of curiosity. “Hey, did you go and meet someone without me? I was only gone for a few minutes, wasn’t I!?”

“Keep your voice down, will you?” the man sighs, and without asking Izumi first, pulls the two by their wrists back out of the crowd so as to allow the dancers to return to their routine without such an unruly disruption. As he weaves them a path, excusing himself every few seconds to another passing face, Izumi, with annoyance, wonders just _how many times_ somebody is going to grab him and pull him along without his consent. They walk until they’ve reached a rather empty corner of the room, and only then is it that the hand gripping his wrist is finally released.

“Sorry _again_ ,” he looks to Izumi with a bashful smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “I didn’t want to just run off without properly introducing myself, and I couldn’t really do that over there, so…”

_You’re pretty bold for even assuming that I’d want to know your name in the first place,_ Izumi wants to retort to express his displeasure, and yet he finds his lips unmoving, for somehow, he feels that he wants to listen. Some unseen force, some invisible tie, feels as though it is drawing him to these two people who he’s _certain_ that he has never met before.

“Ah, uh, this is my friend, Morisawa Chiaki,” he continues when Izumi responds to his previous statement with nothing but silence. “Moricchi, this is…”

“…Sena Izumi,” he replies when he’s motioned to, and offers his hand courteously.

“Sena! That’s a nice name!” Chiaki, voice just as loud as it was before, exclaims with an equally as bright smile. He grabs Izumi’s hand with his own and shakes it far too vigorously to be considered polite.

“Hakaze Kaoru,” the final introduction is said, and Kaoru shoos away Chiaki’s hand so that he can greet himself properly as well. As expected, Kaoru knows how to perform an _actual_ handshake.

“Sena, huh…” Kaoru muses aloud, hesitating as he thinks to himself. “‘Sena Izu-chan,’ maybe?”

“Is that your attempt at a nickname?” Izumi scowls, crossing his arms to express his disapproval, “it’s Sena Izumi, not Sena Izu. And don’t call me by “-chan” so simply. You’ve only just learned my name, you know. Seriously, you’re way too forward.”

“Man, you drive a hard bargain,” Kaoru grins in amusement, “c’mon, you don’t have to be so stiff, y’know? How about ‘Senacchi,’ huh? Is that better for you?”

“I’d _rather_ you just use my _name_ like a _normal_ person,” Izumi replies, but averts his gaze and says, “but, _fine_ , if you really _must_.”

Chiaki and Kaoru have taken quite the interest to him even after only a few minutes of conversation, Izumi notices, and wonders once more why they seem to be so drawn to each other. Every lesson that he has ever been taught has been based upon distancing himself from others and keeping his trust scarce so as to not allow anybody to take advantage of him, and yet some profound part of him wants nothing more than to tell the two of them of anything that they ask. It’s a conflicting feeling, for he feels both comfortable and uncomfortable in their presence, and both trusts and distrusts them. He’s both certain that they have never met before, and certain that somehow, they know each other from some distant time.

“Would you care for a glass?” a passing servant asks the three, offering a tray of elegantly-shaped glasses, all filled generously with different wines. Kaoru and Chiaki take two glasses of scarlet wine while Izumi reaches for a glass of white wine, and dismisses the servant.

There is several moments of silence between the three as they solemnly drink from their glasses, eyes downcast. There is some unspoken tension between them, some thread worn so very thin that it could snap at any moment and release an avalanche upon their shoulders. Nobody seems to want to shatter the delicate surface of ice atop of them, and so they remain impossibly quiet, impossibly tense and still, like a herd of lambs trying to hide themselves from some lingering mountain lion.

“Haven’t,” Izumi suddenly interjects the silence, holding the neck of his glass tightly in one hand and gripping the fabric of his dress in the other, “haven’t I met you two before? Don’t we know each other from somewhere?”

“I thought so, too,” Chiaki replies immediately, and his unoccupied hand grabs hold of Izumi’s before Izumi can recoil, gripping it tightly, as if trying to hold on to a distant memory that was evading his tongue. “I thought so, too!”

“We need to go,” Kaoru says suddenly, grabbing firmly onto Chiaki’s shoulder as his gaze flickers in a direction behind Izumi, brows furrowed and irises clouded, as though he’d caught sight of some tremendous danger drawing closer. “Moricchi, we really need to go--”

“But--”

“Sena!” comes the sudden voice of Tsukinaga Leo, who, alongside Sakuma Ritsu and several other house members, are quickly approaching the three.

As Izumi turns to look towards them, overwhelmed by the abrupt change in the mood, Chiaki seems to recognize the danger that Kaoru had so anxiously warned him about. Kaoru grabs Chiaki’s wrist and pulls him away from where Izumi stands, the force in which they use to flee the scene knocking the drinks from their hands and shattering the glass upon the floor, to which countless people of the crowd of guests look over in alarm. The scarlet wine, the shade of dark blood, splashes upon the skirt of Izumi’s white dress, and he takes a gracious step back with a startled gasp, his own glass falling from his gloved hand.

“Sena, are you alright!?” Leo asks hurriedly as he stops by Izumi’s side, expression one of urgency as he looks him over, as though checking him for some sort of wound.

“What’s happening?” Izumi asks in bewilderment, eyes wide as he looks to Leo and Ritsu, who both seem to be responding to him as though his life had been endangered just mere moments beforehand.

“Some members of House Phoenix snuck in,” Ritsu scowls with a dangerous tone of voice, glaring in the direction of the two’s escape route. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Izumi stares blankly at where Chiaki and Kaoru had been standing mere moments ago, blinking aimlessly, as though suddenly dropped into the endless plains of a desert with no inkling of where to go next. His hands clench tightly at the skirt of his dress, stepping away from the shattered glass of the three drinks that had been dropped in the haste of the situation. He glances down briefly at his dress, taking in the newly-acquired stains, and attempts to process the sudden twist of fate. The crowd around them has turned into a cacophony of murmurs and whispers, and their night of festivities has come to a screeching halt.

He can still feel the warmth of Chiaki’s hand holding on tightly to his own, as if he were to lose him at any moment. Kaoru’s sweet voice echoes in the chaos of his mind.

“Yes,” Izumi responds breathlessly, for his chest felt now impossibly tight around his heart, “I’m fine.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter two is finally finished!! i'm on summer break in two more weeks, so expect some (hopefully) frequent updates! 
> 
> please continue eagerly waiting for every new chapter. it will only get more fun from here on out~♪
> 
> enjoy!

“Why don’t you want to be married?” 

Souma averts his gaze with pursed lips, both hands planted firmly upon teacup, which he’s hardly drinken from. His fingers drum anxiously upon the hot porcelain as he mulls over the question that he’d been asked, knees pressed tightly together beneath the skirt of his dress. He glances up towards the mistress of the house, who is currently having his the minute details of his dress tended to by several faceless servants.

It is a pure white color in contrast to his own, which is an elegant black. Also unlike his dress, that of the mistress is far more regal, setting him apart clearly from any other person of the house and reinforcing his title. His sleeves are long and the fabric is tight to complement his slender arms, and his skirt, loose and without the pompous volume of the skirts of House Basilisk, pools around his feet upon the floor, trailing behind him in a river of white. A veil is tied around his waist, and it carpets that river with a beautiful lace pattern. Just beneath the hem of the skirt, one can see the white heels he wears, elevating him several inches above his natural height. 

“It is not that I do not  _ wish  _ to be married, Hasumi-dono,” Souma responds quietly, looking back into his full cup of tea, “I…I am simply nervous…”  

“Nervous?” Keito repeats innocently, as though the word were completely outlandish to him. “What about it could make you nervous, Kanzaki? Do you not wish to receive your rightful title, and all the respect that comes with it?” 

“Of course I do, Hasumi-dono!” Souma responds quickly, anxious that he might be giving off the wrong idea, “I am simply…I am simply nervous, because…I do not quite know the suitors you have chosen very well…”    

“They’re all fine men,” Keito replies without hesitation, turning back towards the vanity mirror as one of the maids fixes the veil tied to his waist, smoothing out wrinkles that Souma hadn’t even noticed were there. “I would not wed you to anyone who I do not think would care for you well. You know that, don’t you, Kanzaki?” 

“Of course,” Souma nods furiously, and another sentence hangs upon the tip of his tongue, but he instead swallows it and simply gazes down into his teacup once more. Keito, hearing his silence, sighs quietly and motions for the maid to step aside. He turns, steps forwards, and kneels at the opposite side of the table, where a second maid hurriedly rushes to pour him a cup of tea as well. 

“Kanzaki,” he speaks softly, urging Souma to look at him. He does. “If you do not want to be married now, you do not have to. You can wait longer. Kiryuu and I would never want to make you miserable, Kanzaki. You know that, don’t you?” 

“Yes, Hasumi-dono,” Souma answers quietly, and lifts his teacup to his lips to take a long sip. It’s lukewarm, now. “I am sorry, Hasumi-dono…it is just that…”

“My Queen,” a sharp voice with an imperative tone interrupts their conversation, and both of their heads turn towards the doorway, in which a lone figure stands. His eyes are demanding now, and yet dyed an alluringly soft hue of azure, his pale skin framed by his heavenly blonde hair. His black dress has been very carefully prepared, Souma can tell, and its dark color makes his light skin and hair seem even more bright than they already are. If Souma had not known any better, he might even compare his appearance to that of an angel. 

Souma knew better. 

“You’re going to be  _ late, _ ” he warns as he steps into the room, his heels clacking upon the hard surface of the floor. He turns accusingly towards the maids that stand to the side, who shrink against the wall at his presence. “Haven’t you finished yet? Don’t you know that he’s going to be late?” 

“I am  _ ready, _ Eichi,” Keito sighs, pulling himself to his feet as two maids rush forwards to help him do so without stepping or tripping upon his gown. “Don’t give yourself an attack. Kanzaki, come with us.”

“Well, you were  _ supposed _ to be ready  _ twenty minutes _ ago,” Eichi retorts, clearly juggling what must have been fifty tasks at once, “and if  _ you’re _ late, then it’s  _ my _ fault.” 

“I--I apologize!” Souma speaks up suddenly as he stands to attention at Keito’s side, “I…I distracted Hasumi-dono a bit, but…we are both ready, Tenshouin-dono.” 

Eichi looks towards Souma, as though inspecting him to see if he were telling the truth, and then lets out a soft sigh as his shoulders relax themselves. His gloved hand rests softly upon Souma’s head in a reassuring gesture, and he looks towards Keito with a satisfied smile upon his lips, a complete change from his previous image. Souma wonders if that was Eichi’s way of wishing him luck for his first time at an official dinner. Eichi then dismisses the maids with a wave of his hand, and, hurriedly, they take their leave without a word. He then begins to lead both Keito and Souma out of the room and down the corridor of the manor. 

“How do I look?” Keito asks Eichi as they walk, Eichi at his right side, and Souma at his left. Keito instinctively smooths out his skirt immediately upon asking his question. 

“You’ve a face only My King could love,” Eichi replies cheerfully, and chuckles in amusement when Keito elbows him sharply in retaliation. 

Were it anybody else, Souma knows, a remark as rude as that one would warrant some unfathomable punishment. However, Eichi is a high-ranking member of House Phoenix, always at the mistress’s side, and always making cheeky remarks to him, as well. Keito responds with agitation to these pokes and jabs, but if he truly disliked Eichi’s words, he would have gotten rid of him a long time ago. But their bond is tightly-knit, rivaled only by the intense affections that the mistress possessed for the head of the house. Keito’s high opinion and affections for Eichi have won him a definite authority within the house; the maids and the lower ranked maidens and lords looked upon him with respect, and took to taking their orders from him as well as the head and his mistress. 

Souma was set aside from the other lower ranked maidens and lords, but not in the way that Eichi was. He was a young maiden who had won the affections of the mistress and the head of the house, but yet his presence did not demand the respect and acknowledgement of authority as Eichi’s did. Instead, people saw him much more as a  _ child _ to their King and Queen. He was indeed the image of a favored child, always kept his hair tidy, his gaze cast to the floor, and his hands folded politely upon the skirt of his dress. He was hardly ever seen without either the Queen at his side, flocking to him like a mother bird raising a young fletchling, always smoothing out his skirt for him or tucking his hair behind his ear with a loving gaze. Though the other members of the house did not take  _ orders _ from Souma, nor bowed their heads to him when he walked into the room, they certainly acknowledged the intense love that the King and Queen harbored for him, and therefore made the devout effort to keep him from harm. After all, nobody was willing to see what kind of wrath they might invoke within the King and Queen if even a scratch was allowed to come to his gentle cheek. 

“There he is,” Eichi affirms as he leads Keito and Souma in descending the grand staircase of the manor, to where several lords wait at its foot. 

Souma cannot help but smile softly at the head of the house who stands at the base of the staircase, one of his lords adjusting his tie, for Souma can see the slight fluster that dances in the King’s eyes. Hakaze Kaoru and Morisawa Chiaki, the King’s escorts, bow their heads in respect as the mistress and  _ his _ escorts approach, immediately halting their work in tidying the King’s suit. There is a brief silence as the Queen steps forth from Souma and Eichi’s side, placing his hand delicately upon the hand that the King offers to him, and the two stand close to each other, as though never wishing to be separated again. All four of their escorts see clearly the seemingly infinite love held in their gazes; there was never a time in which the two did not look upon each other as if nothing else in the world mattered. 

The King is a tall, well-built man with broad shoulders and a severe expression. His eyes are as sharp as the cut of his jaw, and his posture demands obedience from others. His pressed suit is a dark, black color, the same as the highlights that can be seen in his head of crimson hair. Every feature of him adds into his factor of intimidation, and every individual in service to House Phoenix holds an incredible respect for him, always going to great lengths to see to it that he was pleased. In actuality, however, it was on very rare occasions that the King genuinely became angry with someone of his house over a slip-up or two; despite his heavy appearance, none could truly say that he was a merciless or cruel person. Of course, he had his fair share of aggressive and violent moments, but in no world could one recall an occasion in which his cherished mistress could not soothe his anger. If one did not work for House Phoenix personally, however, and had never made his acquaintance, they would assume that they should refrain from displeasing him in any manner. 

“Kiryuu,” Keito hums quietly, “is it time to take our leave?” 

“How about his dress?” Eichi presses suddenly, taking a step forwards and placing his hands upon Keito’s smooth, shapely shoulders like a mother proudly placing forth her child. 

“It’s, ah,” Kuro begins, and then pauses to clear his throat--an obvious attempt to buy himself a spare moment to collect his thoughts. His eyes twinkle with admiration. “It looks perfect.” 

Eichi frowns, dissatisfied with this answer. 

“How about something shorter, then?” he inquires, to which Keito glances at him critically, “or a different color?”

Kuro nods in interest despite the fact that it was not  _ allowed _ for his dress to be any color other than white, his gaze fixated upon it, but obviously not listening to a word that was being said. “Perfect,” he echoes himself, not sparing even a glance towards Eichi. 

“Oh, you’re  _ hopeless _ ,” Eichi bemoans as he crosses his arms in discontent, shaking his head with disapproval at Kuro’s response. “I could dress him in  _ rags _ and you’d  _ still _ say the same thing, wouldn’t you? I spend a lot of time on these outfits, you know! Good God, I don’t get paid enough for this.” 

“We should probably get going, My King,” Kaoru interrupts.

Kuro does not give an immediate answer, as though still lingering upon his last thought, before he gives a simple nod. He takes Keito’s arm, and, giving him a quick glance with an endearing light in his eyes, follows their escorts. Souma, hands folded together tightly, walks as regally as he can manage behind them as they make their way to the entrance of the house, and eventually, to his first dinner party.

 

…

 

The ballroom is a grandiose place, and Souma finds himself struggling to keep his jaw from falling open at the expanse of it. The floors are polished to such a sheen that he wonders if he could manage to see his own reflection in them. Tables are perfectly prepared with not a chair out of place, and wine glasses adorn each set of dinnerware, shimmering in the light of the chandeliers that hang above them. 

Already, the lower members of the two houses have taken their seats, and now await the entrance of their respective King and Queen; Souma feels a bit embarrassed, he realizes, that he has been given the honor of entering at their side, and yet has no prior experience with this sort of affair. Feeling a sudden bout of self-consciousness, Souma shuffles just a bit more close to Keito, who walks arm-in-arm with Kuro as they enter the room. On Souma’s right side is Eichi, who seems restless for some reason— _ he’s probably waiting to be excused so that he can go and find his husband _ , Souma thinks to himself after a moment, remembering that he is, in fact, married. On Kuro’s left side(for his right arm is occupied with Keito), Chiaki and Kaoru walk solemnly, like two mighty lions following the leader of their pride. 

Their professionalism makes Souma feel small, just as the ballroom does, and just as his dress does.  _ I’m terrified _ , he realizes. 

“Kiryuu-sama; Hasumi-sama,” a waitress bows elegantly in their presence, “allow me to escort you to your table. Sakuma-sama and Mikejima-sama will be arriving momentarily.” 

“Here comes the moment of truth,” Eichi comments quietly, amusement thick in his tone, and Souma is sure that he is the only one who heard it. 

“What do you mean, Tenshouin-dono?” he inquires with the same volume, wondering if this is  _ supposed _ to be a sort of  _ hush-hush _ conversation. 

“Why, the dress, of course,” Eichi replies smoothly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. However, his tone is not condescending, to Souma’s surprise—he wonders if Eichi, too, is being polite to him out of respect for his relationship with the King and Queen. 

“The dress?” 

They take their individual seats at the table, and Souma, with a short glance at Keito, mimics the way he drapes the napkin cloth upon his lap. He stacks his spine and takes a brief look around the room. Eichi continues speaking. 

“Do not be fooled for a moment by appearances, Souma-kun,” Eichi smiles simply, “this is a war zone. When Sakuma Rei enters that door, every single person’s eyes will be on him to see whether or not his dress is superior to Keito’s. Whether or not his beauty outweighs Keito’s. Whether or not _they_ have the better pair, or _we_ have the better pair.”

“Kanzaki,” Keito speaks quietly to him, placing a gloved hand upon his beneath the table, “do not eat anything that is offered to you. If you are to have a drink, only have it if it is poured in front of you. If you leave it alone for even a moment, have it taken and get a new glass.” 

“Lest you be poisoned by that wicked witch’s henchmen,” Eichi coos as he finishes Keito’s warning, his smile still set upon his lips. “They are cruel people, you know. They would not hesitate to kill you if they were given the chance, even in a public place. They have their ways.” 

“So, do not go anywhere with anybody, unless one of _us_ is with you,” Keito instructs, “stay near Kiryuu and I at all times. If you need to leave to the bathroom at any point, someone will accompany you. No matter what, _do not go alone_.” 

“This is a war zone,” Eichi nods, “a war zone, indeed.” 

Their voices seemed to mix together until they were one singular person. Souma tries to tuck the information he’s been given into his mind, careful not to forget anything that he’d been warned about. He repeats portions of it to himself in his head, attempting to drill it in as firmly as possible so as to not embarrass himself down the road. It seems a bit more simple if he boils it all down to  _ don’t leave Hasumi-dono’s side, no matter what _ . He glances towards Keito, as if to confirm this, and watches a pretty waitress fill his glass with white wine. 

Idle chatter is brought to a halt along with the turning of heads, and Souma looks towards the entrance of the room to see what must be the head and the mistress of House Basilisk, their escorts at their sides. They walk in with a burst of cool air, and Souma feels goosebumps spread along his skin, as though the temperature in the room had abruptly and drastically dropped. The air grows heavy with their presence. 

Sakuma Rei drapes his arms charmingly around one of Mikejima Madara’s as they enter, his scarlet eyes glimmering in the reflective light of the chandeliers. His dress is nothing short of pompous, and Souma studies it for a few moments, trying to gauge whether or not it surpasses Keito’s or not. The skirt’s volume is absolutely grand, and Souma struggles when trying to count how many strips of ribbon and lace adorn it. Its sleeves are worn low so that his pale, smooth shoulders may stand out, the skin only stopped by the expanse of his long gloves. Lace straps cross and wind around his neck, giving the illusion of a necklace. A black veil is draped along the back of his head, extending from a thin headband that is adorned with a brilliant black rose on its right side. His heels are dangerously high, and Souma remembers hearing somewhere about the mistress’s infamous talent of making the most impractical shoes work for him. 

A waitress hurries to meet them and lead them to their seats. Madara pulls Rei close to him by his waist, and smiles in what  _ should _ be seen as a hospitable manner, but it only makes Souma shiver. Pressed in a fine white suit with red rose upon his lapel, he helps Rei into his seat before taking his own. He wastes no time in having another waitress pour him and his husband a glass of scarlet wine. 

“I wonder who dresses  _ him _ ,” Kaoru comments with a playful smirk as he takes a sip of his wine. Eichi kicks him beneath the table, and he catches himself just short of a choking fit. 

“Hasumi-dono’s dress is superior, isn’t it?” Souma asks quietly, and Eichi huffs with indignance, clearly offended by the display he’d been shown. 

“Of _course_ it is,” he insists, “why, _I_ chose it, after all. I’m sure that _I_ have _far_ better taste than whatever sorry sap that they have over at—” 

“Now that they’ve arrived, it’s time for the dance, isn’t it?” Kaoru interrupts, to which Eichi shoots another glare at him, and Souma wonders if Kaoru had spoken up just then solely to get on the blonde’s nerves. “Should we escort you?” 

“Dance?” Souma asks curiously, leaning towards Eichi once more, “what does he mean, Tenshouin-dono? What is the ‘dance?’” 

“Both heads of the houses offer the mistress of the opposing house a dance, and then the rest of the houses do the same with each other,” Eichi explains simply, taking a long sip from his drink. “It is how we begin all of these parties. Kiryuu always detests handing Keito over.” 

“Mikejima…he is to have a dance with Hasumi-dono?” Souma echoes, eyes wide in surprise, “but…is that not dangerous? They both hate each other, do they not? Why would they then share a dance together? I do not understand, Tenshouin-dono…”

Eichi’s lips curve into an amused smile, and he turns in his seat, taking Souma’s face into his gloved hands and pressing upon his cheeks. “Oh, you sweet child,” he sighs endearingly, “you sweet,  _ stupid _ child. Keito, you  _ must _ be paying me extra for your babysitting.”

“Kanzaki simply isn’t used to this sort of thing—do not go shaming him for it. He is a perfect example of what  _ you _ should be like, Eichi,” Keito replies sternly, holding his glass firmly in his hand. “Polite, soft-spoken, and respectful.” 

“I’m offended that you don’t think of me as any of those, Keito!” Eichi feigns horror as he gasps, “why, I am  _ quite _ respectful, thank you very much.” 

Kaoru snickers into his wine. Eichi kicks him once more beneath the table. This time, he chokes. 

“It’s about  _ image _ , Souma-kun,” Eichi finally begins to explain. 

“Of course we hate them. However, for publicity’s sake, we pretend that we are getting along swimmingly at these little dinner parties. It’s all about fooling the people, see; reassuring the city officials that their precious reputation is not being harmed by any sort of criminal antics in the streets. If we were to show how much we detest each other, then we would have unpleasant political issues upon our hands that we simply do  _ not _ have time to deal with.

After the heads and the mistresses begin their exchange, the rest of us will follow suit. Oh, Souma-kun, you’ll have to find a member of their house to share a dance with—don’t worry about anything happening to you during that time; nobody ever tries anything sly when in a room full of people armed to the teeth. Just don’t run off with anybody. ”

Then, suddenly recalling his duty after distracting himself from it for a short while, Eichi shifts his attention towards the house’s mistress. Souma is left in a daze, trying to comprehend not only what Eichi had just told him, but also the heavy anxiety it planted in his chest.

“Keito,” Eichi rises from his seat and smooths the skirt of his dress, “you should meet with Mikejima now. Come, I’ll bring you.” 

“…Just a moment,” Keito replies quietly, his eyelids fluttering shut, as though taking a moment to meditate to himself. “Please.” 

Souma wonders if Keito is afraid, with the way that he thins his lips and spares not even a glance towards the table where the head and mistress of House Basilisk sit.  _ No, _ Souma thinks to himself almost immediately after,  _ Hasumi-dono is not afraid of anything _ . However, he cannot help but burn the image of Keito’s tight hold upon Kuro’s hand into his mind. They hold onto each other beneath the table like that, as though fearing to leave each other’s side—but they have always been that way, Souma knows. 

Something truly despicable must have happened to those two to make them so terrified of being without the other. 

“Come, now,” Eichi presses after a short minute, “I’ll escort you, Keito. Hurry up, will you? You’ve always been so slow.” 

Keito seems to linger for a moment longer at Kuro’s side, and then, with reluctance, he slips his hand from Kuro’s hold and stands at Eichi’s side. Kuro, as though mourning the loss of the warmth of Keito’s hand, remains seated until Chiaki and Kaoru both rise to tend to the job of escorting him. Souma watches them leave, and catches sight of the head and mistress of the other house mirroring their approach so that they could meet at the center of the room. Forgetting that he was supposed to be doing the same and oblivious to the shuffling of the people around him, he watches the four dominant figures in the room approach each other, and, his interest piqued, finds that he cannot tear his gaze away. Keito looks so  _ small _ next to Mikejima—what was he to do if something happened? Would he be able to escape, when Mikejima had such obvious strength to use against him? Would Kuro rush to his aid? Should  _ he _ be thinking about protecting Keito right now, even when Eichi had told him not to worry about such a thing? 

“E…excuse me.” 

Souma’s head jerks abruptly to the side when a low voice falls upon his ears, eyes wide with surprise at being startled, and lays his gaze upon a tall man looking down upon him. His eyes are a deep, sharp amber, and his short, lavender hair frames the well-defined features of his face. His shoulders are broad and squared, elegantly outlined by his pressed white suit. Face-to-face with a member of House Basilisk, Souma had thought that, certainly, he would feel some form of caution and fear; however, all that he feels welling up within his chest as he looks up at the man, who has now extended a (rather awkward) hand towards him, is a fulfilling sensation of awe. 

“Ah, do you…would you like to dance?”   

Souma blinks once, twice, and looks intently into the other’s eyes. The stranger stares back at him, and they watch as red threads extend from their chests and entwine with each other. Fate’s cold hands claw at them, tearing their clothing, ripping through their skin, and spilling their blood across time. In the labyrinth of his mind, he can hear the distant screams of Keito, and he can hear the melody of the rain pouring down upon his shoulders, and he can feel the rush of free-falling through the sky, his hair tie falling loose and his hair spilling around him like an ocean wave. Wordlessly, his heart thundering in his ears, Souma places his hand gently into the open palm. 

The red threads create a knot, and become inseparable. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter @daawnmaiden. 
> 
> don't forget to leave kudos/a comment! ♥


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